By Buster Olney

Friday, October 24, 2008

Not long after he opened his eyes, the big league pitcher could tell this morning was different. Still lying in bed, he lifted his right shoulder, his arm bent at the elbow, and instinctively braced for the pain. But there wasn't any. For a moment, he was confused. The mornings after were always the worst. That's the way it is when you're thirtysomething and you throw a baseball for a living. He had worked in the bullpen the day before, full bore, pumping fastballs, and of course there would b ...

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